Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  “What do you want of me?” she asked serenely, leaving the settee.

  Oh, she knew exactly what he wanted. And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.

  “Assistance. I’m here to obtain furnishings for my new house, and therefore wish to know the names of London’s best workshops and warehouses. I’d hoped to find satisfactory goods in Liverpool, but failed to do so. That, however, was the least of my disappointments during my stay,” he said harshly, recalling her stealthy escape.

  He yearned to run his fingers over each sharply defined collarbone. His lips hungered for her. And here he stood talking of furniture, when all he really cared about was getting her into bed and showing her what she’d missed by abandoning him.

  “Lord Rushton,” she said to the gentleman, “I present Sir Darius Corlett, of Derbyshire and the Isle of Man.”

  The Earl of Rustlip—Dare had delivered a letter with that inscription to the post office in Douglas.

  In his well-bred drawl the earl remarked, “I recall one Corlett of Damerham, who requested my donation to a philanthropic project some years ago. A connection of yours, Sir Darius?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “I regret to say that we never met, but by all accounts he was highly respected. Am I correct in thinking he was an industrialist?”

  “He owned lead mines. Near Matlock.”

  “And this furniture you require is for your Damerham property?”

  “No, my lord. I’ve constructed a rural villa on the island and now must fill it.” Was it a good sign or a bad one that Oriana had failed to mention his existence?

  She said, “You would admire the setting, Rushton—a secluded valley, with mountain views.”

  “It sounds delightful. You will find the town very crowded just now, Sir Darius, but it will empty soon enough. I hope you had no difficulty finding a desirable lodging.”

  “Nerot’s in King Street.” It ranked among the most fashionable and expensive of London’s hotels, and he hoped the quizzical Lord Rustlip was impressed.

  “Not your first visit, I take it.”

  Dare had met this type before—worthy, wealthy, impeccably turned out. From his cropped, silver-dusted head to his leather soles, Lord Rushton was the model of an English nobleman, as excruciatingly correct in his behavior as in his dress.

  Looking to Oriana, the earl said pleasantly, “I had better leave, that you may confer with Sir Darius.

  My daughter demands my escort to the Park—her Mr. Powell is in Wales, administering to a sick relative—and I must not fail her, else she’ll be cross. Shall we see you there this afternoon?”

  “Not today,” she replied.

  While her noble guest made his farewells, Dare wandered over to examine the pair of portraits hanging on either side of the window. Charles II, attired in formal robes and doublet, smiled enigmatically, his black eyes half-lidded and his long black hair hanging down his shoulders. His swarthy complexion and curling moustache gave him a piratical appearance. Nell Gwynn, painted en deshabille, placed a floral garland around a lamb’s neck; the white bedgown drooped from her shoulder, revealing one plump breast. Her pink, pouting lips reminded him of Oriana’s, and her curls were a similar shade.

  From across the room, she told him, “I was afraid you might come.” Now that they were alone, her agitation was evident.

  Facing her, he said wrathfully, “You have cause to fear me. Because this is one of those moments, Oriana. when I wish I could torture you as you’ve tortured me. Mercilessly.”

  “Quiet, my servants will hear you.”

  “I don’t care if the whole of London hears me. What’s the point of discretion? You’re Ana St. Albans, your lovers visit the house in broad daylight, one after the other. I’m surprised there’s not a queue outside your door.”

  “You needn’t be jealous of Rushton,” she snapped. “He’s not my lover, and never has been.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard. Is his name Thomas?”

  She shut her eyes as if pained by the question. “No, it’s Richard—but I’ve never called him that, our friendship isn’t that intimate. Who told you about Thomas?”

  “Merton Pringle.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Lady Pringle’s youngest son.” Taking her wrist, he drew her to the window. “He’s down there, playing in the garden.”

  “That little boy?”

  “He can’t be more than eight or nine, but he knows all about you.”

  “I doubt it.” She freed herself, saying, “He may have heard some silly rumors.”

  “He entertained me with a ballad. I can’t remember all of it, but that was your name in the refrain.”

  “I know the one. Oh, this is worse than I imagined.” She pressed her palms against her face, warding off his accusing stare. “I didn’t want you to know. I could have told you myself, in Liverpool. But I fully expected that you’d find out.”

  “Are you admitting there’s truth in that stupid song?”

  “Yes.”

  Oriana wished she could have given him the denial he so clearly wanted, but she wouldn’t lie to him.

  “Was your liaison with Thomas another of your youthful rebellions?”

  “No. It was a mistake,” she said. “As I’ve told you, while mourning my dead husband, I nursed my dying mother. When I lost her, I was desperately lonely. I didn’t believe I could ever fall in love again. In my third year of widowhood I met Thomas. From him, I wanted all that Henry had offered—love and marriage. Only after he asked me to be his wife did I accept his presents, and after much pleading on his part, I proved my affection for him in the way that he most desired.”

  Dare wouldn’t look at her.

  “My happiness lasted only a few weeks. Mrs. Mountain fell ill on one of her Vauxhall nights, and I was called in to replace her. Thomas turned up with a large party of fashionable people—he was attentive to a very pretty girl. And that’s how I learned of his prior engagement to another duke’s daughter—a legitimate one, with a courtesy title and a fortune. The next time he visited my house, I refused to receive him.” After a pause, she asked, “Did you see Willa Bradfield after you learned the terrible truth about her?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “That’s how I felt, too. Out of spite, he told his friends that I’d been his mistress—just when I’d finally been offered a position at the opera house. He attended my debut, with his betrothed and her parents.

  I’ve never felt so exposed as I did that night, or so outraged. The claque was out in force. They loathe any singer who’s not an Italian, and they shouted the rudest comments imaginable. After that hideous incident, every rake in town claimed he’d made love to me. Falsely. I was furious.”

  His expression of outrage told her that he shared her feelings. And she was relieved to see his hard eyes soften with compassion. “Your longing for privacy,” he said. “I understand it better now.”

  “My name turned up in a book listing the most renowned females from the brothels and the alleyways round Covent Garden. ‘The Siren of Soho,’ she quoted bitterly, ” ‘a duke’s by-blow, is an armful of delight and much in demand. This sprightly, auburn-haired maiden has an inviting countenance and melting eyes. She is a skilled musician and singer, in bed proves herself a zestful companion.’ I paid the publisher a hundred pounds to edit me out of subsequent editions. And after finishing my season at the King’s Theatre, I never returned.”

  “Didn’t your aristocratic relatives step forward to quash the scandal?”

  “They couldn’t. Society, hungry for the most salacious stories, labeled me a fallen woman—and still does. Wagging tongues inevitably couple me with nearly every gentleman who can claim an acquaintance with me, and just as many who can’t. I’ve grown resigned to it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He was right to contradict her. “Well, if I retaliated by announcing that all those prominent men who boast of sleeping with me are a pack of liars
, I would harm only myself. As a performer, I’m too dependent on the goodwill of the public to make enemies. My only defense against slander was my virtue.”

  “I was your only lapse?” He sounded pleased.

  “I’ve no right to make demands, after the way I’ve behaved. But I beg you, Dare, don’t tell anyone.

  Please.”

  “Christ, Oriana,” he said impatiently, “have a little faith in me. Your secret is safe.” He seized her forearms, and gave her a little shake. “I want your promise that you’ll stop running away from me.”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go. Except Newmarket, to watch the—”

  He silenced her with a kiss that melted her limbs.

  Her arms curled around his waist, and she surrendered herself to a losing battle between emotion and reason. Dare Corlett knew the worst now, and judging from his hungry lips and roving hands, his passion for her had not diminished.

  As her body quickened with desire that must forever go unfulfilled, she remembered the joy of yielding herself to him. She must put an end to this immediately, for her own sake and for his. But his kisses were too potent, or else she was too weak.

  “Ma’am, the dressmaker wants to know whether you’ll want—”

  Horrified, Oriana tore herself from Dare’s arms.

  Her maid stood in the doorway.

  “What were you saying, Suke?”

  “I thought you were alone, ma’am.” Rattled by finding her mistress wrapped in a stranger’s embrace, the servant continued nervously, “Your seamstress sent a message asking whether she should finish the cream-colored silk gown for your dinner party, or the green one.”

  ‘“The cream,” Dare suggested to Oriana, in a carrying voice. “I’ve already seen you in green, several times.”

  Suke stared at him.

  Poised between mirth and annoyance, Oriana informed her servant of her preference—which just happened to coincide with Dare’s. “And I want you to take all my pearls to the jeweler for restringing.”

  “As you wish, ma’am,” Suke replied before making a speedy retreat.

  Dare swept Oriana’s hair aside, exposing her neck.

  “You are the most shameless—that tickles.”

  “When is your party?”

  “Next week.”

  “You’ll be devastating in that new evening gown, wearing your pearls,” he murmured, his mouth moving against her skin. “Must you deprive me of the chance to see you in all your splendor? I’m a stranger in your city, fully dependent on your goodwill and hospitality….” His lips touched her forehead, as lightly and gently as the flicker of a moth’s wing.

  He was thrusting himself into her life. She was unable to muster a defense as he distracted her with his kissing and caressing.

  “How would I explain your presence to my cousins, my friends?”

  “To repay my many kindnesses during your stay in Glen Auldyn, you invited me to dinner.”

  “That will make my numbers uneven.” Mentally reviewing her guest list, she said, “If you come, I must get another female. Rushton won’t want his daughter coming to my house. Even if he permitted it, I couldn’t have Lady Liza without Matthew Powell—they’re betrothed. He’s the man who wanted to marry me.”

  “Rustlip’s daughter is pledged to one of your admirers?” He raked his fingers through his black hair.

  “Oh, to hell with all of them—I’m too exhausted to make sense of your intrigues.”

  Counting on her fingers, she ran through the other names. “Cousin Aubrey and Lady Catherine Beauclerk. Michael Kelly and Mrs. Crouch will sing for us afterwards. I know—my friend Miss Banks appreciates fine music, and so do Sir Joseph and Lady Banks.”

  “Not the same Joseph Banks who voyaged with Captain Cook? The president of the Royal Society?”

  She nodded. “He collects rare plants and scientific books, and catalogs them as you do your minerals.”

  “That’s not all he does,” Dare said. “How did you become acquainted with him?”

  “He’s my neighbor.” Leading him over to the window, she pointed to the corner house. “His sister Sarah Sophia and I have much in common, mostly notably singing and horses. She’s teaching me to drive four-in-hand.”

  “A large woman in riding clothes? I saw her.” As Dare stared at Sir Joseph’s residence, he yawned.

  “When did you arrive in town?”

  “Today, after three nights on the road. Sleepless nights, no thanks to you. Do you keep brandy?”

  “With that queue of gentlemen at my door, I’d be foolish not to.”

  His hand cupped her cheek. “My apologies for that. I was angry.”

  This time his kiss was tender, contrite. Hers was forgiving.

  How long, Oriana wondered fatalistically, before this dangerously intense friendship would be publicized by the Oracle or the True Briton, or one of the newssheets? She trusted Dare’s promise of discretion. But despite her servants’ similarly good intentions, she had scant faith in their ability to keep silent. In London, any new-minted gossip about Ana St. Albans was currency too valuable to waste.

  Chapter 14

  Oriana planned Dare’s first shopping excursion as rigorously as a general prepared his military campaign, leaving nothing to chance.

  “Why did you make this list?” he asked, as they cut across the square. “It’s no use at all—I can’t read a word you’ve written. Whoever formed your penmanship did a miserable job of it.”

  “My parents provided me with many a music master, but I never had a governess. I learned my letters from Mother, and Mrs. Lumley, our housekeeper, showed me how to use a pen.” With noticeable self-consciousness, Oriana admitted, “You might say I educated myself. I was schooled at a convent in Brussels very briefly. My mother told me if I didn’t succeed as a singer, I could become a postulant—because my father needed someone to pray for his soul.”

  “What did the sisters teach you?”

  “Prayers and hymns. When I lived in Italy, I sang at a convent ceremony. Several wellborn young women were being received into the church—they were magnificently dressed and covered in diamonds.

  I always wonder what their lives were like after they bade farewell to the wicked world to live in the cloister.”

  “Do I detect a note of envy?”

  The curling plume on her bonnet waved as she shook her head. “The peace of the place would appeal to me only if I could have my pianoforte and music books. I suspect I’d soon pine for the theaters and concerts, and race meetings. The worst of it would be wearing the same black dress every day.”

  Although she laughed when she said this, he could tell she meant it. “Is that ruffly bit hanging from your skirt the famous St. Albans flounce I’ve heard about?”

  “It is.”

  “And what do you call that fetching little jacket?” He liked the way the shiny yellow fabric outlined her splendid curves, flaring out slightly above her hips.

  “A St. Albans spencer.”

  “How fortunate I am to have the guidance of the best dressed lady in London. As well as the most beautiful.”

  “With the worst handwriting,” she said airily, brushing off the compliment. Coming to the corner of a broad and busy thoroughfare lined with shop fronts, she announced, “This is Oxford Street.”

  Dare consulted the paper in his hand. “The first cabinetmaker listed here appears to be called Abdomen Wreck.”

  “Abraham Wright.”

  Mr. Wright’s establishment offered a variety of handsome household objects, carved from the finest woods and exquisitely finished. After studying the pattern-book, Dare roamed through the showroom.

  Everything he saw, he liked—especially the beds.

  His craving for Oriana was at odds with her determination to keep their relationship platonic. Never doubting that she was aware of his ulterior purpose, he saw no reason crassly to state it and risk a certain refusal. He had no rival to defeat; the only obstacle in his way was Oriana herself. Someh
ow he must win out over her vigorous independence and her dread of scandal. She’d stated plainly, with a bluntness he could respect but not like, that she wouldn’t be his mistress. His campaign of seduction must be subtle.

  For the time being he must be content with flirtatious banter and, in his bolder moments, a furtive kiss.

  Ta’n dooinney creeney shaghney marranyn, Mrs. Stowell had often told him. The prudent man avoids mistakes.

  Steering her toward a bedstead, he asked, “Do you prefer four posts and curtains, or a half tester?

  What about this tented version?”

  “You must decide which style suits you best,” she responded, clearly reluctant to discuss what, for him, was a topic of abiding interest.

  Whether he selected a frame that was simple or grand, it would support the best goosedown mattress—large enough for two to tumble about on and covered with sheets of soft Manx linen.

  Well, he could dream. Impossible not to, when every time he turned he found another bed, each one reminding him of the ecstasy he’d found with her in his library.

  From his perspective there was no impediment to the relationship he aspired to. She was sensitive about her tattered reputation, for reasons that he could understand. He could do nothing to mend it, but neither could he cause further damage. With a steady income and a house of her own, she possessed an unusual—but pleasing-measure of independence. Oriana Vera St. Albans Julian could be the perfect mistress, if only she would stop pretending that a bed was made only for sleeping.

  “Mahogany or rosewood?” he persisted. “Plain wood, or gilded? Too many choices, and you’re not being very helpful.”

  “It’s your house,” she reminded him, before wandering off to inspect the clothespresses.

  Yes, his house. And because of her, he didn’t even know when he’d see it again. He’d left the seclusion of Glen Auldyn to pursue a deliciously seductive and damnably elusive female.

  After inspecting a set of drawing-room chairs, Dare asked for the tradesman’s engraved card. He and Oriana exited the shop, and once again he tried to decipher her scrawl. “Where do we go now—is it Deer Street?”

  “Dean Street. Just round the next corner.”